


Four-Minute Mile

by PreludeInZ



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 22:21:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2523818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreludeInZ/pseuds/PreludeInZ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People really seemed to like Four Minute Mile over on Tumblr. I am pretty pleased with it myself. I hope you enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Can you run a four minute mile?"

Well, of course. Of course Scout could run a four minute mile, that was a dumb question. Only it was Miss Pauling and of course Miss Pauling didn’t ask dumb questions. How would she know, anyway. Not her fault. Anyway, he hadn’t before. That was to say, he  _had_ , but never such that it was official. Not with, like, a timer or anything. Well, now he had to prove it. Maybe not such a dumb question.

It had to be a straight line. Had to find a mile of road where he wasn’t likely to get hit by anything. Four minutes, that was tons of time.

Except, he had only meant to tell Engie. Engie wasn’t supposed to mention it to anyone else, Engie was just good with logistics and timers and maps, so of course he’d know the best place to do it. That’d been all Scout meant to ask him for, and maybe some help with actually timing it. Scout hadn’t asked him not to tell anyone else, because why would it matter if he did? A four minute mile, no big deal.

All eight of them had shown up. The bastards. Sat at the 384 mile marker of US 550, tailgating. Sniper brought a little coal barbecue. There were burgers. Their meat content was of questionable origin. Engi brought his truck with it’s crooning, cowboy radio. Demo brought beer. Heavy had a parasol, unironically. They had decided to make a day of it. Goddamn bastards.

At least Engie had brought a stopwatch. And at least he’d been good enough to give Scout a ride to the 383rd mile marker.  So he’d be fresh. Engie had done a lazy three-point-turn to turn himself around. He would start the stopwatch as Scout started running, and drive to beat him back to the finish line. It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. What was four minutes?

Scout hopped out of the back of the truck and stretched. He never stretched, why was he stretching. “If I fudge this because you flapped your damn mouth an’ now I got performance anxiety, you owe me big.”

Engineer rested an arm on the rolled down window of his truck. “If you fudge this, it’s ‘cause you got a damn poor sense of your own abilities, and you owe  _me_  big. I put fifty bucks on you making at  _least_ 4:30. Medic laid the odds, and son, they ain’t that good.”

Oh Christ. “C’mon, it’s four minutes. Why’s this a thing, I didn’t know this was a  _thing_.”

"Was a point in time people thought it was impossible. Not just difficult. Impossible. You’re what, twenty-five? Twenty-six?"

"Twenty-six. I am in my  _prime_ , though, you know me, I run everywhere. Can’t be  _that_ hard.”

"Ain’t my point. I remember the year they broke the record. Year you were born. Was in the papers. Thought it was neat, at the time." Engie grinned. "Never figured on actually seeing someone do it. That guy, some English bastard. He must’ve trained for years."

Shit. Oh, shit. “Oh.”

"Well, an’ you’ll pardon me saying so, I don’t know much from runnin’. I got a truck, does my runnin’ for me. But was always my estimation you were more of a distance runner. More with the endurance than the speed. Sure, you sprint now and again, can cover a span faster than the rest of us. Mostly it ain’t about speed, though, it’s about pacing. I imagine. Gotta be in a real mental zone."

"Aw, god." Sniper’s van was visible, a long way off, through a haze of heat baking off the asphalt of Highway 550. A thin curl of smoke rose from the barbecue. A straight line. Flat. And further than four minutes away. "Aww, man, I did not think this through."

Engie drummed his thumbs cheerfully on the steering wheel of his truck. He leaned forward over the wheel and squinted. “Sure didn’t. I suppose you ain’t gonna be happy as I thought you’d be that I invited Miss Pauling out.”

It was hot. It was New Mexico, of course it was hot. Clear day, sun blazing. But there was a cold spot, smack in the middle of Highway 550, right around the 383rd mile. Scout was standing in the middle of it, afforded a perfect view of a purple truck, pulling up beside Sniper’s camper. Oh, good, now she was climbing out. Far off, a tiny figure was waving.

"You gotta help me fake this. Oh, god. I’m an idiot. I didn’t know this was a thing,  _why is this a thing_.”

Engi laughed. “You know, she don’t  _care_. Not actually. I reckon she’s only out here ‘cause she’s curious, not ‘cause you ran your fool mouth about bein’ so damn sure you could do it.”

"Look, they can’t see that well. Not all the way down here. Look, you start, an’ I’ll hang off your tailgate for maybe the first quarter. Then I’ll hop off an’ do the rest. Just a little handicap, come on. You got fifty bucks on this."

This suggestion ran contrary to Dell Connagher’s stern sense of moral rightness. “Oh, now, I ain’t gonna help you cheat. Ain’t you curious to just see how you do? Still gonna be impressive, better’n any of us can do. Anyway, you think Sniper ain’t gonna have handed out extra scopes? There’s little stars winkin’ at us already, see?”

Scout bent over, hands on his knees, pretending that at a distance it just must look like stretching and not a complete mental breakdown. It wasn’t, of course, but he felt like an absolute idiot. “Engi. Two hundred bucks, all I got ‘til next week and it’s gonna be my mom’s birthday, but I’ll just send her somethin’ late. Belated. Help me fake this thing, come on.”

Engi squinted down the highway. A shimmering mirage gleamed on the asphalt. “One twenty-five, you buy your ma somethin’ nice. But you help me move the lathe in my workshop, the big one. I want it in the other corner.”

"Yes, fine, right. Okay, you don’t gotta fake it  _much_ , right? I mean, I think I can get  _close_. Just, you know, a few seconds. This shit comes down to seconds, right?”

"Sure does. Look, don’t feel too bad if you can’t do it, it’s a hell of a thing…"

"Nah. Nah, it’s fine, I got it. Okay?" He was tense now, bouncing with nervous energy. His calves already felt tight, probably the stretching. Stupid stretching, what kind of moron needed to stretch before running, running was just a thing that you  _did_.

Engie had brought a starter pistol. He hefted it suggestively, still leaning out the window. The truck idled at a low, steady purr. “One for the money,” he led in, thumbing the safety.

God. “Right, right, yeah.” Was there a stance for this? Was he supposed to get down, like you saw in the Olympics? He’d never cared about the Olympics, he got paid way more than any of those assholes, probably they weren’t any faster than he was anyway. Oh goddamnit.

"Two for the show…"

"Oh Christ, Engie, can it."

Scout took off. There was a short squeal of tires as Engie cussed quietly, and put the truck in gear. It wasn’t long before Scout was overtaken and passed, but it felt like a lot longer.

It’d all dissolved away, because when he stopped overthinking it, it just made sense. Running was just a thing he  _did,_  a thing he’d always done. In school—highschool, when he could be bothered to go, he could beat the morning bell. He could hear the five minute warning from the front porch, and he could be off and gone and at his desk before the day started. Out of breath and grinning defiantly at an irate English teacher, but it still counted. That had to have been at least a mile. At  _least_.

A decade ago, though. A whole ten years, Scout hadn’t ever thought of his life in increments of a decade.  _Two_ decades, nearly three. But it was still as natural now as it was then. He couldn’t have gotten  _slower_ , that was unthinkable. He wasn’t underfed and sixteen and quietly, constantly desperate anymore, he was in the best shape of his life. Had to be. He’d never stopped running, there hadn’t been a day he could think of—barring illness or serious injury—that he hadn’t run at  _least_ a mile at some point, for some reason.

He hadn’t ever had a good sense of time. But he felt like he could sense a minute had passed, and there were fractional increments marked along this stretch of highway. Maybe that was why Engi had picked it. He was going too fast to have noticed the number, anyway, but he was already closing the distance to the next one. A big fat 4/10, nearly halfway. Couldn’t be more than two minutes, probably less.

And he felt fine. Just fine. Goddamn great, this was easy. He wouldn’t stop. When he got to the end, he would just keep going. Show the lot of them. Set a new damn record, hell with that British asshole. English. British-English. Demo would know. This was America, they had practically invented running.

He had just cleared the halfway point, two minutes in, when the heat caught up with him.

———

"Ooh!"

This was elicited in a chorus from the spectating mercs, along with wincing and hissed intakes of breath. Watches were checked. Engi absently clicked his stopwatch. Several dirty, suspicious looks were directed at Sniper, who had handed out extra scopes, but left his own attached to its rifle.

"Did any of you hear a gunshot? No? Well, that’d be on account of  _I didn’t bloody shoot him_. Tripped on his damn feet, bloody fool. He’ll bounce right back up any minute.”

Demo was still hopefully checking his watch. “D’ye think he might still do it?”

Spy hadn’t bothered to watch, leaning against the shady side of the camper, smoking. “No, this is over. I believe several of you gentlemen owe me money.”

This started an argument amongst several of them.

"Aaaaaany minute now," Sniper muttered. He and Miss Pauling were the only two still peering down their scopes.

It had been about five seconds longer than Miss Pauling felt she could attribute to someone lying facedown on a highway due to embarrassment, when she had a sudden realization. “Guys. It’s what, almost a hundred degrees out?”

This stopped the argument. Medic laughed, catching on quicker than anyone else. “Oh! I should perhaps have advised against this.”

Miss Pauling had collared Pyro, nearest to hand, and was already climbing into her truck.

———

Her hands were cold. But so was the window against his forehead and Scout didn’t really feel like choosing between the two.

"Hey. Scout? Hey, can you hear me?"

She had such pretty hands. He couldn’t see them, actually, because he didn’t especially feel like opening his eyes, either. But he knew they were pretty, they  _felt_  pretty. Were they always this cool? And delicate, firm fingers, her palm on the side of his neck, the fingertips of her other hand probing his jaw, his cheek.  _Ow_.

"Oh god, Scout, your poor face. Come on, just give me something to rule out  _serious_  brain damage, okay? Who put you up to this, you could’ve killed yourself.”

“ ~~ **Oh, he’s fine. I gotta buy him a beer when we get back. Good job, buddy**~~!”

Scout’s brain was blinking back online, section by section, and reshuffling his priorities as it did so. “Mmmnmh. S’wrong with my face? Ow. Face.”

Language appeared to be lagging a bit behind. Vision had reengaged, though, and he blinked a few times. Truck. Purple. Ow, truck. Engie’s? Purple, stupid. Miss Pauling. “This your truck?”

She had smiled, just a little, mostly she looked relieved. “Okay. Yes, it’s my truck. It’s got air conditioning. We’re going back to Big Rock, you need to lie down for a while. Your face is fine, you just, um. Landed on it. Kind of.”

“ ~~ **He’s fine. Little road rash never hurt anybody. He took it mostly on the side. Cheekbones probably broke the fall. Impeccable bone structure finally come in handy, pretty boy**~~?”

"Pyro, keep your eyes on the road."

 _Ow_.

There went her hands again, his throat, collarbone. Down the front of his shirt. Oh god. Miss Pauling had a morbidly curious streak that occasionally made life awkward. Not strictly unpleasant. But awkward.

"You are really hot. Like, it’s ridiculous, I know about heatstroke. I haven’t ever seen it, though. I think this isn’t that serious. I think. Medic left. Packed up with the others, I am going to give him hell when we catch up."

"Why’s Pyro driving?"

"He insisted. He had you down as ‘catch fire halfway’ and everyone agrees he won on a technicality. I think he means to thank you."

Relevant facts were still trying to butt their way to the surface of his brain. “Time?” Pyro, driving. “Uhm, he can’t drive stick, y’know.”

“ ~~ **I’m**~~ ~~ _ **learning**_~~ ~~ **.**~~ ”

Miss Pauling rolled her eyes. “Yes, I found that out. I’m shifting for him. There has been a learning curve. It’s around quarter after one. Do you remember getting in the truck? It was maybe five minutes ago, we practically had to peel you off the pavement. Whose idea was this, Scout, seriously. The middle of the day. In New Mexico. In  _August._  What the hell were you trying to prove?”

 _I am the stupidest person I know, and I know Soldier._  “Not that time. My time. The four minute thing. The mile. I hadn’t ever done it, before.”

Miss Pauling groaned theatrically. “I didn’t need you to  _prove_ it, I believed you. Engi said if you’d kept up the same pace you were at when he stopped the timer, you probably could’ve had it. But  _not in 95 degree weather on a black strip of highway in the desert in New Mexico_. Scout, I catch you doing anything like this again, I’m going to staple your feet to the floor. You were eight miles out of range of respawn, you seriously could’ve killed yourself.”

Oh. “M’sorry.”

She sighed. “No. It’s okay. There are eight people—one of whom is a _doctor_ , and another has half a dozen PHDs—who should’ve realized this was a bad idea. I should’ve realized this was a bad idea.” Again with that little half smile, though. “Still. It would’ve been neat to see you do it. Maybe wait til it cools down.”

 _Oh, no. No, no. Terrible idea, terrible goddamn idea. This is not your gig, you are twenty-six, you ain’t run like that since high school if you even did then. This is for damned serious bastards who get up at four in the morning like idiots. Still, though, Miss Pauling thinks I_ can.  _Oh, no. Hell._ “So…like, November.”

“Yes. Try again in November.”  
  
_I could maybe do it by November_.


	2. Epilogue

The problem with Scout was that he got stuck on things. Well, one of the problems, there were a lot of problems. Dell had heard that Miss Pauling had a list. And maybe it wasn’t necessarily a problem, maybe if Engi was being charitable, he could reframe it by just saying it differently. That was something his grandfather had taught him, if you can’t find the solution to the problem, then change the problem. The  _thing_ with Scout was that he was persistent. Stubborn. Tended to fixate.

So maybe that wasn’t a problem at all. Except when it was  _definitely_ a problem, like when you needed him to concentrate on not being crushed by a piece of heavy machinery. Or not crushing  _you_ with a piece of heavy machinery, because he was damned  _obsessed_ with ‘running a four minute mile.

“It’s like you said, right? Oof, shoot, Engi, watch it. I wasn’t ready for that. Anyway, like you said. Ain’t about speed, s’about pacing. RIght?”

Dell had forgiven him the hundred and twenty-five dollars, on account of Scout’d nearly killed himself. But Scout had a decent streak and he’d insisted that he’d still help him move the lathe in his workshop. It would have cost him four hours of disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling a minigun, but Dell should’ve asked Heavy to do it. Even with machine skates and a toe-jack, it really should’ve been done by now. “Scout, you shut your mouth, we get this lathe in the corner, and I will tell you  _exactly_ how to run a goddamn four minute mile.”

Well, that worked.

There was a chalkboard on the wall in Engi’s shop. He didn’t often have people coming in to whom he needed to explain things, so right now it only had his shopping list for the week (Bread, milk, ball bearings, more allen keys). He picked up a piece of chalk and bounced it on his palm, then pointed imperiously to a clear spot on his work bench. “Sit.”

“This ain’t gonna take, like, math or nothin’? Or…like, I hope maybe not a lotta math? Probably I ain’t gotta tell you I’m kinda bad at math.”

“There’s different ways of bein’ good at math,” Engi insisted firmly, and with a fluid, practiced motion, drew two cartesian planes. Exquisite, perfectly straight lines. Lay ordinate and abscissa upon the problem. Cut out a quarter, throw in a line. Resolve what needed to be made sense of in the world. Graphs were like meditatin’. Elegant.

“Aw, god, those are graphs. Right? I’m  _real_ bad at graphs.”

“Scout, you maybe shut your damn face for a minute, I might be able to cram somethin’ what’s useful into that thick skull of yours.”

“Right. Right, okay. Sorry.”

Granted at least a minute of silence, Dell quickly added a line to one set of coordinates and a curve to the other. “The curve’s your problem. The line’s your solution.”

“Okay. Um. Should there be labels somewhere on that thing, ‘cause maybe that’d explain a bit more. I ain’t got the first idea what the hell that means.”

Engi looked at Scout for a moment, then back at the blackboard. Then he picked up an eraser and wiped away his beautiful graphs. He went instead to the fridge, pulled out a pair of beers, cracked them open and handed one over. He dropped onto his stool with a sigh. “Okay. You are maybe not so much a visual learner, that’s fine. Let’s talk it out.”

“D’you really think I could do it?”

“Yeah, you know, I think you can. I think you can’t do it right  _now_. I think you gotta work up to it, an’ I think you gotta understand that it ain’t good enough just to  _run_. I think  _you’re_  gonna have to learn to think about it.”

Scout sat for a few moments, thinking, like he’d been told to. Dell sipped his beer and meditated. Graphs in his head. Acceleration. Velocity vs. time.

“Would you…could you help me figure it out? I dunno where to start. An’ hey, maybe don’t tell anyone, this time. I fucked up, really. I got cocky, I know it. Coulda been real bad. S’just. It’s always been  _easy_. Is this gettin’ old? I mean, is this what it’s  _like_  gettin’ old?”

Dell laughed. “Twenty-six ain’t old.”

“Older’n I figured I’d get.”

Scout was maybe sometimes a little more complicated than anyone gave him credit for. Not a lot. But a little. Sometimes. Engi had no objections to complicated problems. Liked them, in fact. “Well, I don’t know from runnin’.”

“Well, I dunno from math.”

“Well, then maybe we can work somethin’ out around the averagin’ of those two concepts.” He held his half-empty bottle out in a toast. “Cheers, pardner.”

Scout grinned. “Sure, yeah. Cheers.”


End file.
